


As Above, So Below

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Background Relationships, Companion Piece, Drinking, F/M, Gen, M/M, Modern Thedas, Politics, Race, Relationship(s), Wicked Grace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion set of ficlets (and stuff) associated with the longer work 'Under the Skin, Over the Heart'.  Because you asked for it, guys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Guy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Under the Skin, Over the Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084087) by [little_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss), [MermAight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermAight/pseuds/MermAight). 



> If you've been reading the comments on 'Under the Skin, Over the Heart', you'll see that I've mentioned these little extra things, which are not much more than ideas which were superfluous to the main narrative in that story. But, because there were a few people interested, here they are; I'll continue to add to this collection sporadically. These are in very rough order of events of the main narrative.

“So?”  Hawke slams the door of the grey Mazda behind him, having ignored the squeal of the hinges on the door and the way the car violently rocks under his weight, “What do you think of him?”

“Huh?” Anders looks over at him quickly, before he turns the key in the ignition.  The stereo comes on, too loud for conversation and he quickly dials down the volume; he thinks briefly that he probably shouldn’t listen to Anti-Flag, not while he’s driving, but leaves it on anyway.  Once he has pulled into the stream of traffic, and made it around a cyclist without killing anyone, he breathes out and asks Hawke, “Who are you talking about?”

“That new guy!  Dorian! C’mon, you’ve always got an opinion…”

Anders shrugs noncommittally, focuses on the road.  Then, unable to help himself, he says, “Not always.  But yeah, he’s real talented.”

 

Hawke huffs a small laugh, then bends his knee up to put a boot on the seat, hugging his leg.  “Talented.  Okay, yeah.  Come on, babe, I know you got more than that.”

Anders frowns a little, looks at Hawke quickly.  There is something about this conversation which bothers him; it’s nothing out of the ordinary, in terms of content, but Hawke’s tone is off somehow.  He continues, keeping his tone light as he says, “Well, yeah.  He is though.  More than I was, back at the same stage.  He needs a little patience though - he rushes.”

Hawke snorts then, and smiles, but the smile seems forced, even though Anders isn’t looking properly.  “I’m not asking for your professional opinion…”  Hawke says, and it sounds like a joke on the surface, but Anders is losing patience with this line of questioning, and so he asks, rather brusquely, “Then what are you asking for?”

 

Hawke purses his lips, and shrugs a little, not looking at Anders at all.  He sways with the motion of the car as Anders takes a corner too quickly, too used to Anders’ driving that he doesn’t breathe in sharply or grab for the door handle like he used to.  Then he makes a revolted face and says, “It  _ still _ stinks in here!  That daft bastard cat of yours needs the snip, man, he pisses on  _ everything _ _._ ”  Then he laughs, the worst attempt at laughter Anders has heard from him in a long time.  It’s a sound he associates with what he refers to internally as the Kirkwall Years, and it sets his teeth on edge to hear it.  So he asks, more gently than he wants to, “C’mon, Hawke.  What’s up?”

Hawke just shakes his head, not even bothering to try a covering smile.  He hugs his knee closer to his chest and says, “Nothing. I’m seriously fine.”

And with that, Anders feels the second slip of the leash that he has on his annoyance, and says, louder than he’d intended, “Don’t be a prat.  What is it?”

Silence in the car.  The CD changes, now to one of Hawke’s; a horrid slow drone in Anders’ ears, atmospheric and nerve-wracking.  Just as Anders is beginning to feel the need to repeat his question, Hawke asks, in a small voice, “Do you like him?  He likes you.”

“I like him fine,” Anders says, momentarily confused.  Then he replays Hawke’s words in his head, and takes his eyes off the road for a moment to look at Hawke as he asks, “Are you… jealous?”

 

Another pause, then Hawke mutters, “Yeah.”  His hand is up by his mouth, index finger flicking nervously at the ring in his septum, and then he sighs and looks at Anders, almost defiantly, and repeats, “Yeah.  I am a bit.  I mean, I just…”  Anders slows the car abruptly, sliding into a parking space and flicking his indicator on after the fact.  He twists in his seat, looking at Hawke, who looks back, guilty, nervous.  “Tal,” Anders says, his expression shifting somewhere between concern and exasperation, “Dorian… I get on well with him, and we have a laugh and that.  But… he’s not you, love.”

Hawke tries to smile then, and rubs the bridge of his nose in a gesture that Anders knows well.  “He’s awful pretty though,” Hawke says, sounding chagrinned, then sighs.  “I don’t know.  I’m sorry, babe.  Try to indulge an old man gettin’ all weird ‘cause of handsome young co-workers.”

Anders chuckles a little at that, and says, “Well, if Dorian was interested, all it would prove was that you had excellent taste.”

Hawke grins at that, a proper smile now, then rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, alright.  Settle down there, charmer.”

Anders laughs too, and cups Hawke under the jaw briefly, then shakes his head and turns back to face the road.  He flips his indicator in the other direction, and pulls out into the traffic again.  “Speaking of charmers, how long is your brother likely to be in town?”

Hawke snorts and says, “I don’t know, it’s secret Warden business or some shit.  He’s been weird lately, distracted as hell.  And before you say it, no, weird and distracted is not his default setting, and no, as far as I can tell he hasn’t got some nice Chantry girl up the duff.  Imagine,” Hawke shudders theatrically, and puts on a spooky voice, “Carver  _ breeds _ _._ ”

Anders laughs.  He changes lanes, and continues driving, closer to home.


	2. Solidarity

“I’m not doing it.”

“It’s a couple of little lines on a pretty elf girl’s face, Fenris.  What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that those lines have meaning to some.”  Fenris glares at Al, and shakes his head, yanks at one of his flesh tunnels as he tells him, “You never should have booked that appointment.  You should have sent her to a Keeper, or Solas at Inquisition.  I can’t do that work.  It’s… inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?   _ Inappropriate? _  What the hell, Fenris?  I got a business to run here…”

“So maybe you shoulda done it yourself, Al.”  Varric comes out of the back room, striding over to where Fenris and Al stand in the middle of the empty studio.  It’s still early, and the studio will not officially open for an hour yet, but the three of them have often found each other here when it is quiet; drawing, or working with clients.  He finishes rubbing his hands dry on the paper towel he is holding, and tosses it into the bin, before looking back at Al and saying, “It’d have about as much meaning as if Broody had done it.  Vallaslin is a rite of passage for elves.  Broody is the least elfy elf I’ve ever met.”  He looks up at Fenris and asks, “Do you even know any elvhen?”

 

Fenris scrunches his face at Varric and sighs tiredly, before saying, “Yes, a bit.  But that’s beside the point, Varric.  And I can fight my own battles.”

Varric flaps his hand impatiently and shrugs, “Yeah, Broody.  I know how you love a good fight.  Still, a little solidarity never hurt, right?”

“Ngh,” Al says, looking between them, a bewildered look on his face, “I still don’t get what the problem is.”

Before Fenris can say anything, Varric cocks his head at Al and asks, “Al, if an Orlesian came in here and wanted a big, fuck-off mabari tat, would you do it?”

Al frowns and looks at the floor before saying hesitantly, “Yeeeeah, I guess.”

Varric smiles at him and nods, “Just that hesitation is enough to tell me you might have an inkling of what Broody’s tryin’ to tell you.  You Fereldans have all this weird shit about those dogs, right?  The whole Dane and the Werewolf thing, different painty things you can put on ‘em, fuck knows why.  And then there’s all the meanings in art of supine mabari, mabari rampant, blah-blah-blah.”  He pauses, rolls his eyes before continuing, “What I’m gettin’ at is to a Fereldan, mabari are more than just dogs; they’re national identity.  For you, an Orlesian with a mabari tat is at best, crazy, and at worst, a huge insult, am I right?”

Al nods, still frowning, and says, “Yeah.  Yeah, that’d be about right.  But…”

Varric goes right over the top of him, saying, “So, there you go.  For Broo… Fenris to do vallaslin, or me to do caste markings, is at best crazy and at worst insulting to an entire culture.  City elves and surface-born dwarves have been doing that kind of cultural appropriation for ages; and, y’know, okay, if people feel they gotta do that to get back to their roots, whatever.  But if it feels wrong to us,”  Varric looks at Al carefully, “Don’t you try to push it, ‘kay?”

 

Al considers, looking between Varric and Fenris warily.  Finally, he blows out air and says, “Alright.  I’ll call Solas and this kid, see if we can set something up.”  He shakes his head and mutters, “Maker, all this drama…”

“Drama, he says!”  Varric laughs and looks up at Fenris, who raises an eyebrow and smirks when Varric tells Al, “You want drama, guy, you gotta go to Kirkwall.  Shit, no place does drama like Kirkwall.”


	3. Choke

“Pity Izzie’s not playin’,” Sera sniffs, “I’d go for clothes then.”

Cass snorts, glancing at Sera, then frowns down at her cards and holds out her hand to Varric, who slides another card across the table to her.  “Last one, Seeker,” he warns and Cass says, “I know, Varric.”  She huffs and glances at Sera again before muttering, “Izzie doesn’t wear clothes anyway…”

“Now, who’s this speaking ill of me?”  A voice purrs from the kitchen, “Not Cass, surely?  Not my biggest fan?”

Hawke snorts and grins at Izzie, raising his eyes from his cards, “She’d have to fight Aveline for that title, darlin’.”

Izzie sidles up to the table, standing next to Sera, grinning at Hawke, then makes a moue and shrugs, batting her eyelashes at Cass.  “You could always be secretary, if you wanted, Cass-baby?” she says, her voice a bright dagger, “Coming second’s better than not coming at all, surely?”  Sera guffaws at the innuendo, and Izzie winds a thread of the elf’s blond hair around her finger, smiling.  “Hutch up, babycakes.  Deal me in next round, Varric, darling?”

“I fold,” Fenris says, his face like thunder.  He throws his cards on the table and mutters, “Piece of shit hand.”

“You’re just a shit liar, Fenny,” Hawke tells him, “That’s what wicked grace is all about.”

“Ngh, I fold too,” Al says, and Varric laughs, peeking at Al’s cards.  His eyebrows rise and he asks Al, “You know that the Angel is a good card, right?”

“Shit!  Can I unfold?”

“Nope,” Hawke says immediately. “No way,” says Sera, laughing. “No, definitely not,” Cass says, and then grins at him as she says, “Not now we know you’ve got that!”

“Had that,” corrects Ataash, smirking.  Behind him, a voice says, “Here, ‘Taash, drink this!”  Dagna stands there, presenting a shotglass full of dark, very thick looking liquid.  He takes it from her and shrugs, downing the liquid in a single gulp.  As this is happening, Al sits up a little straighter and asks her, “Did that bottle have my name on it?”

“Yup,” Dagna says, and then Ataash smacks his lips and looks at Al, “Not bad.  A little weak for ritewine though. That’s what that was, right?”

“Weak?  _ Weak _ _?_ ” Al blusters, and gets up, “Right you ingrate, let’s make some more.   _ Weak _ _,”_ he mutters, walking through to the kitchen.  Dagna grins at Ataash and rubs her hands together, telling him, “Ooh, I’ve always wanted to see this!”  Ataash smiles at her, and they follow Al into the kitchen.  The others quickly follow, the game forgotten.

 

Anders is sitting on the kitchen bench, telling Cole, “...you leave it to steep, on a windowsill or something.”  Cole nods seriously, and then Anders sees Al and smiles, saying, “Here’s the expert.  Warden Theirin, master mixer.”

Al laughs, and nods, “Warden Anders.”  He takes the bottle of ritewine, marked with a white stick-on lable which says, “Warden Theirin: awkward but endearing” in spiky cursive marker handwriting and waggles it.  Then he proceeds to lift the bottles on the counter, separating out those which are less than an eighth full.  “Damnit,” he mutters, “Gwen cleared us out before she left,” and Anders laughs.  “Yeah, she was always doing that!  You couldn’t leave anything less than a quarter full around, otherwise it’d get added to hers.”  Al ends up with a bottle of red wine, a dusty bottle of Flames of Our Lady, and some Baileys.  “No,” says Dagna, “No, don’t put the Baileys in there…”

“What do we care?” Al asks, and Anders finishes, “Nothing burns like the first cup.”  They look at each other, a little sadly, and then Dagna asks in astonishment, “Does it burn away all your tastebuds too?” Izzie laughs, “That’d be handy.”

“Ooh, Maker,” Sera says, “Ya not gonna drink that, are ya?”

“Drink it?  Oh yes,”  Al says, and then looks at her quizzically, “It’s ritewine.  You have to drink it, otherwise there’d be no point.”

“Health and safety, dude,” Dagna whispers, her eyes big as Al swirls the contents of the bottle and picks up a glass that looks mostly clean from the bench.  “Do you still keep yours going?” he asks Anders, and Anders shakes his head.  “Nah, not since the thing with…” and he waggles his fingers close to his temple and rolls his eyes.  Al nods, and says, “Shame,” before pouring a finger of the liquid into the glass.  He drinks it in one swallow, and chokes, coughs, chokes again, his eyes watering.  “Ugh, much better,” he says, barely able to breathe, and they all laugh.  In the stillness afterwards, the sound of the door closing on the street below is stark.


	4. Enemy Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so this is the big difficult conversation about Seheron between Fenris and Iron Bull. I'm just putting a note in here because it is quite harsh, and it does deal with some mildly graphic war stuff, and talks a tiny bit about PTSD.

Varric swirls the contents of the jam-jar he is drinking out of, then squints up at Bull.  “Y’know,” he says, “I can’t figure out what you do.  All Qunari have jobs which are also their names, right?  What the fuck is a Bull supposed to do?”

Bull laughs at him, but when Varric continues to look at him in a puzzled fashion, he realises the question is in earnest, and says, “That’s not the name I was given.  I chose it.”

“Really?”  Varric takes a sip of his drink and nods, “That’s kind of cool.  So, what is it that you do?  I mean, I’d guess mercenary, but only because… what the fuck else does a Qunari do?”

Bull shrugs, and says, “Yeah,” slowly, but when Varric continues to look at him steadily, he decides to try and change the subject at the nearest opportunity.  He likes Varric, he decides, though the dwarf is decidedly too nosy for his own good.  “You’re hardly a garden variety merc though,” Varric continues, “Too smart for that.  So..?”

“I was with the Ben-Hassrath.  You know what that is?”

“Nope, but I know that when a Qunari tells you they _were_ something, it means that they’re Tal-Vashoth now.  Thought you’d be army material though, seein’ you fight today.  You come back from Seheron all fucked up and they re-position you, or something?”

Bull shakes his head, and sighs.  “I saw service on Seheron, but in a different capacity.  It was ugly, even when it was an active front, rather than a guerilla war.  Between the ‘vints, the weather and the Fog Warriors, it was unlikely that any of our people lasted more than two tours.  If you didn’t get scragged by some shitty-ass home-made land mine from the Fog Warriors, or come down with a parasite or red fever, or blown away in a ‘vint night raid, you’d get sent home with asala-taar,” he shakes his head again, then realises Varric won’t understand the term, “It’s like post-traumatic stress disorder.”  This is the last thing he wants to talk about, but since Varric asked, he is almost powerless to resist the call of those dark memories.  He tells Varric, who is looking decidedly uncomfortable, “No-one was prepared for the shit-storm that Seheron turned into…”

“...except for the Fog Warriors themselves.  Neither the Tevinter forces or those of the Qun have any right to that territory.”  A soft voice, almost silken with implied threat, says from Bull’s blind side.  He turns to see the white haired elf, Fenris, at his elbow.  He frowns, wondering at Fenris’ clear opinion on the matter, where it has come from.  The elf looks up at him, a challenging stare, the look in his large green eyes clear and cold.  “Er… I gotta go… take a piss…” Varric mutters, clearly wanting to get as far away from this conversation as possible.   Bull takes a deep breath in, watching Varric go, and then his heart sinks to hear Dorian’s voice from behind him.  “The Fog Warriors are terrorists, Fenris,” Dorian says, his tone almost blithe, though when Bull turns to look at him, the expression on his face is serious.  He continues, “They feel completely justified, as only terrorists can, in using threat and murder against their own people to further their political cause…”

“As would most if two nations with a far superior military might decided to use their home as an extended pissing contest, _Tevinter,_ ” Fenris snarls, and Dorian frowns.  Dorian's tone of voice is harsh, angry as he asks, “So, what? The end justifies the means?”  There is a pause for a brief moment, then Fenris raises his eyebrows, and leans back a little, crosses his arms.  Then he says, simply, “Yes.”

 

Bull looks down at Fenris and Dorian both, a worried frown on his face.  He sighs again and says quietly, “I could get on board with that train of thought, if it ever fuckin’ worked.  But when the means involves taking kids away from their parents to train them as soldiers, or intimidation of civilians who want nothing more than to get on with their lives…”

Fenris cuts him off abruptly, saying, “There have never been proven incidences of those things occurring…”  And then Bull, frustrated, cuts his hand down sharply and glares at Fenris, before growling, “You weren’t there.”

“How do you know?” snaps Fenris, just as quickly, his nostrils flaring.  Bull sees the sudden jerk of tension through his shoulders, the clutch of muscles in his forearms tightening as the hidden hands turn to fists.  “I’ve been to Seheron, I’ve lived with the Fog Warriors.  I’ve seen the children and women in their encampments, heard their stories of public executions by Qun forces, the airstrikes against hospitals and schools by fighters clearly marked with Tevinter insignia.  They treated me with kindness and respect despite their situation, despite the fact that they had no reason to trust me.  Despite how I repaid that trust.”  He shakes his head quickly, and Bull notes the quick swallow, the slight tremble of his lower lip.  He glances at Dorian quickly, and Dorian looks back, his eyes large with concern and confusion.  “Fenris, what..?” he asks, and Fenris shakes his head again and mutters, “Just forget it.  I guess… I guess… no-one is innocent.” 


	5. Sleeper

Al shuffles to the open cupboard and puts the last glass back in its place.  He breathes a sigh of relief and pulls at his pajama pants, then grins at Noodle, who is laying down in the middle of the kitchen floor, taking up most of the space.  “All done, kiddo,” he tells the dog.  He yawns hugely, raising his arms up over his head, and Noodle gets up, cocks his head to one side and wuffs softly.  “Yeah, guess it’s bedtime,” Al tells him, then hears a hideous tinny electronic version of the Imperial March from Star Wars.  Noodle barks happily, beginning to dance around Al, who glances around the kitchen, panicking, looking around for his phone.  “Get out of the way, you dozy bugger,” he says at Noodle, who lunges enthusiastically for the kitchen bench at the same time Al sees the phone and does the same thing.  They collide, and Al falls, smacking his elbow hard on the stainless steel.  “Ow, fuck, you fucking fuck!” he yells, and lunges for the phone again, grabbing it with one hand and holding his elbow with the other.  He glares at Noodle, who whines as Al thumbs the accept call icon and says breathlessly, “Baby, you still there?”

 

“Whoa, Al, are you alright?  Oh no, you weren’t asleep were you?” Gwen asks, her voice crackly with distance.  He smiles, relaxes and tells her, “No, no honey, just tidying up.  It’s Tuesday here.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.  Do you want me to call back?”

“No!  No, don’t hang up.  Hang on,” he takes the phone away from his ear for a moment, grinning at Noodle and tells him, “come on, Noods, it’s Mama!”  The dog gives him a look of withering contempt as if to say, ‘of course it is, you idiot’, but follows him through to the bedroom willingly enough.  As Al clambers onto the unmade bed, Noodle gives a happy bark and Al tells Gwen, “Baby says hi.”

“Aw, he’s so cute!  Hi puppy-baby!” Gwen laughs and then asks, “You’re not letting him sleep on the bed, are you?”

“No, hon,” Al tells her, pulling Noodle’s back legs up onto the bed as he scrabbles for purchase among the sheets.  The dog circles twice among the bedclothes and then lies down, looking at Al happily.  He wuffs a little and puts his head between his paws.  Al grins at him and puts his finger to his lips. “I’m all TCB here - any word yet on when you’ll be back?”

“Nope.” Gwen sighs, and he can hear the frustration in her voice just from that one word.  She continues, “Clarel hasn’t even met with me yet, I’m too low down in the food chain.  They’re still waiting on the last of the Orlesian companies.  I guess it’s that civil war holdin’ them up.  Fuckin’ Orlesians.”  A laugh and then, “How’s that new guy?  The Tevene?”

“Bloody brilliant,” Al tells her, then rolls his eyes as he says, “Though Fenris went all weird on me about it…”

“That guy’s always looking for a fight, baby…   
“Yeah, but they’ve declared a truce or something.  I think Hawke had a word with Fenris, but the less I know about it the better.  As long as everyone just shuts up and gets on with it, I’m not complaining.”  He stifles a yawn and sits back against the pillow, wiggles his legs underneath the blankets.  “How’s the weather?”

“Awful.  The Anderfels really is a shithole.  It’s snowing already here.  Weisshaupt is meant to be the best place in this butt-crack country, and it makes Denerim after the Blight look like Val Royeaux.” She sighs, and says, “No wonder Anders’ dad wanted to get out of here.”

“Aw shit!  Anders! I forgot to give him your CD!”

Gwen laughs, and says, “It doesn’t matter, baby.  It’s not urgent.  He’ll only play it in the car and get another speeding ticket.”  There is a pause on the line and then she asks, almost tentatively, “Have you spoken to Mo’ yet?”

He shakes his head and sighs, worming his way further down in the bed.  “Still haven’t talked to her.  She got the legal on me the other day...”

“Oh, Al!  For Makers’ sake, just talk to her!”  The admonishment in her voice is clear, and he cringes a little, huffing out a breath, listening as she says, a little more sympathetically, “Morrigan’s not unreasonable, if she knows where you’re coming from…”  He sighs again, then says, “Alright, alright.  I… I just… I don’t want her to say no.”

“Baby, she can’t say yes if you never ask.”

There is a beat of silence on the line, interspersed by a crackle of static.  Al sighs and turns onto his side, putting the phone under his ear and pulling the blankets over himself.  He closes his eyes and mutters, “Miss you.”

Gwen’s voice sounds tired and sad as she tells him, “I miss you too.”  Noodle shuffles closer to Al over the top of the blankets, and he puts his hand on the dog’s warm fur and asks her, “Gwen, honey, can’t you just come home?”

He hears the smile in her voice, can see it in his mind’s eye, “I would if I could, baby.  Believe me.  But I need to get this weird-ass Calling shit sorted out, and that means waiting for Clarel to pull her finger out.  Hopefully it won’t be long now.  I’ll let you know as soon as I can, okay?”

“Okay,” he sighs, and then yawns.  “Keep talking to me, honey?”

“Are you going to sleep with my dulcet tones in your ear?” she laughs and then asks, “Want me to tell you about all the wicked things I’m going to do to you when I get home?”

He smiles at that, and laughs a little, then murmurs, “That’d make for a nice dream…” She laughs again, softly and begins to sing  _ The Soldier and the Sea Wolf _ as he slowly drifts into the twilight land of sleep.  He doesn’t wake up when she finally ends the call, and Noodle, hearing the dial tone, noses the phone away from Al and out of the bed.  He shuffles closer to Al and looks worriedly at him for a moment, before closing his own eyes and going to sleep himself.


End file.
